It's life. You don't figure it out. You just climb up on the beast and ride.
Maybe people are more like the earth than we know. Maybe they have fault lines that sooner or later are going to split open under pressure.
Good enough is good enough. Perfect will make you a big fat mess every time.
I value humor, kindness, and the ability to tell a good story far more than money, status, or the kind of car someone drives.
I never claimed to be a low-maintenance gal, but when I'm writing, it's particularly challenging. I lose things constantly: my watch, my glasses, my papers, my mind.
Life is short but it is wide. This too shall pass.
You know how some people, when they're together, they somehow make you feel more hopeful? Make you feel like the world is not the insane place it really is?
Friends are supposed to act like harbor boats-let you know if you're off course. But it ain't always possible.
I want to lay up like that, to float unstructured, without ambition or anxiety. I want to inhabit my life like a porch.
As a writer, I am not goddess of the universes I create. I am at most a stage manager of the plentiful gifts which tumble out of the horn of plenty, which is to say there is a source so sweet and forgiving and generous that I pray every day to let that source be my guide.
I now know that things I always thought I could depend on can crash in an instant. Because of the love that I have been shown, I now know what it means to be 'beloved.' I now know that no breath is to be taken for granted.
Sometimes you just have to reach out and grab what you want, even when they tell you not to. This is something that I've struggled with my whole life long.
I believe that illness has led me to a life of gratitude, so I consider Lyme disease at this point in my life to be a blessing in disguise.
At the beauty of what she had stumbled onto, at the fear that something terrible would happen because she was not vigilant enough. She cried at the fear of something so good that she would not be brave enough to bear it.
A scent that disturbs me and delights me. It smells like ripe pears, vetiver, a bit of violet and something else- something spicy almost biting and exotic.
These are all I have. I do not have the wide, bright beacon of some solid old lighthouse, guiding ships safely home, past the jaggedrocks. I only have these little glimmers that flicker and then go out.
Can you reclaim that free-girl smile, or is it like virginity- once you loose it, that's it?
There is the truth of history, and there is the truth of what a person remembers.
Sadness can find you anywhere, anytime, so you better have fun when you can.
What they don't know is that I went over the edge years ago, and lived to tell the tale.
I have been missing the point. The point is not knowing another person, or learning to love another person. The point is simply this: how tender can we bear to be? What good manners can we show as we welcome ourselves and others into our hearts?
But who has time to write memoirs? I’m still living my memoirs.
When I'm reading, wherever I am, I'm always somewhere else.
Sometimes lost treasures can be reclaimed.
How wide and sweet and wild motherhood and sisterhood can be.
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